


made possible by a spacecraft

by creative_republic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, Funny, Harry Styles - Freeform, Humor, M/M, One Shot, Smut, Supernatural - Freeform, castiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23695348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creative_republic/pseuds/creative_republic
Summary: collection of smut and fluff. first person. gay.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

This accommodation I feared, and the fear that welled inside me whenever I recollected on his touch, this soft speech that drove around and about like intersecting bridges in my head—intoxicating and freeing in some of the most belligerent and hostile of ways.  
I felt hopeless, as though I should simply succumb to his hands and let my life fall victim to this accommodation. 

Occasionally I reminisce on his humor. His olive skin and American smile. The way he bit his lip to sustain a laugh, or clench his teeth and turn his head.   
I almost couldn't understand his dark, yet sensible in his own right, demeanor. The way his hair moved when the rest of his body stayed still. How his hands do— gently graze up the whole of my body, he did with words. Around my hips and up the small of my back. The way he lifted a single finger just to send goosebumps shooting down the back of my neck.  
It was him, this beautifully masculine stranger that completely swept me off my feet.   
I swear, thinking back on it, I bewilder myself with some of the hopeless shit I said; asking him these sweet, seemingly innocent questions that I would twist and contort in my own gross little ways to make dirty;  
"Do you prefer showers over baths?" Good to know there's a chance we can shower together  
"Do you workout a lot?" Nice, I'll expect something better under those clothes, or better yet we'll have sex in my complex's gym.  
The more stale the time, the more exciting his appearance. 

One night, an especially lonely time; a late December spent completely alone in my one bed/bath apartment, I had been offered a night out with him and his then girlfriend. It was innocent, and so beautifully so.   
He had since come clean about the Thoughts he had on men, and the way he felt about women as well, so our relationship has fluctuated.   
I called him, lying upside down on my balcony--facing left of the Beaverton transit center, to the right of me the rest of the world.   
He had this magnificent way of words, and this gross under-simplification for his stumbling, which I adored and his girlfriend considered his doctor's word for it, "ADD", as though something this pleasant could be a sort of illness. 

He whispered to me through the phone like some intimate mouth-to-mouth connection, and I ran the thread running through the balcony rug between my fingers.   
I understood, I mean, the near contempt in his vocality when he talked about these small anecdotes driving him through life as though he were a machine. It was something in his breathing, and the softest sound of his lips curving upward, the way his speech tightened itself, his tongue clasped lightly between the whitest teeth I'd ever seen. 

"I have time to spare, I'm not wasting my life talking to you".

"I have my whole life to spare," I would love to spend it with you

In between these feverish dream-like states, I understood the reason he was whispering was to keep quiet from his girlfriend, sleeping peacefully beside him. 

"Michael, sometimes I wish I lived as a translucent being."

"Well, you are very pale."

"That's-" I heard the soft curve of his lips and the rustling of blankets.

"I mean—imagine what my life would sound like, drifting away like paper"

I shook my head and rolled over so that I could drop my phone and not be able to pick it back up, if I wanted to.

"Do you feel happiness, constantly?"

"I feel content in most—a lot of what I do. We live in a world where we must settle for contentness."

I imagined walking across some sort of cloud-made bridge and into his bedroom, like a heavenly portal. 

"I wish you were here."

"What?" I sat up.

"I wish you came when I called you earlier, we really missed you."

We

"Well—I would've had to contort myself to be with you and Joey."

"Me and Joey."

I recognized the desert in his throat. When his mom was a teenager and he was a baby, she used to refer to him as "him and Joey", in some sort of representation for his constant mind changes. Him and an entirely different entity. Joey and himself. 

"Sorry." 

I heard him move, and first figured he might have woken his girlfriend. 

"I might just get to bed."

The incredulous irony. 

"Joseph, I'm sorry." 

"I'm joking—come by, and come through the back door." 

I breathed out and stood up on the balcony, barefoot, frozen-foot. I cradled myself and plunged open the sliding door to get back inside. 

"I wish I had the posture to keep staying up in bed talking to you—you know my tangled spine."

"Coming." I tugged on the edge of my coffee table in attempt to move it. 

Please don't let go. Please keep talking. 

I shoved the phone in my pocket and my foot into an old pair of boots, despite wearing shorts with every outfit. 

I couldn't decide for myself how to deal with situations like Joey's. I was completely star struck, to be honest, whenever I payed attention to the things he did or didn't do, my heart raced and every atom in my system crashed into each other. And yet, when I put it into words, for him or myself, I stumbled over myself like he always does.   
And though I find it sweet and charming when it's his soft, non-rhotic midwestern dialect, it was broken and too noticeable in my dead eyes and drowned out my already character-lacking sensibility with nervous, spastic-sounding, rhythmic notes. 

Joey was tall, taller than me. I'd known him for years. I must have been in middle school when my parents introduced me. He was a family friend for a while, and then his mother lost contact with my family, after his coming out, and this attempt to distort our connection only made it stronger.   
He was always very touchy around me, and other boys and girls my age.   
When I was fourteen he invited me and one of his friends from school over for a sleepover and breakfast. At the time, I didn't have any friends from school, so was eager, in a very nervous—angsty way, to see him.   
During the night, he woke me up by putting an old cassette tape in his parent's old Panasonic, wheeled in from their room on his dad's computer desk. I sat up in bed after seeing the clip load, half a woman's face, lower half covered by a—large—dick. I shoved Joey, and he smiled at me. 

"You ever watch stuff like this?"

"No,"

"Scared?"

I looked down, his hand gently grazing against my thigh. 

"No,"

I looked at his friend, dead asleep and lying on his stomach with a heavy blanket covering his neck and below his shoulders.

"Why would I be scared?"

Joey looked at the tv again, before finally turning and looking me in the eye.   
The room was dark, his eyes were darker, and my heart was moving at the speed of sound. Joey leaned in, I didn't move at first, but he gently placed his soft fingers under the brink of my chin, lifting it towards him ever-so-slightly.   
He smelled like his mother's faded perfume and the Cajun we'd had for dinner. The takeout box was still on his nightstand. The aroma was thicker through his open mouth, dark pink lips. 

"Close your eyes," his voice was so small, the little curvature upward in his tone from his life spent in Oklahoma made my heart flutter. I was afraid I might leak drool on him a bit, but his mouth grazed mine in the softest touch I've ever felt, like the back of a baby's head, and he bumped foreheads with me, our noses swiping together as though in a cockfight, he pushed his pillow lips into mine.   
I couldn't hold back, I wrapped my arm around his back, and pulled his shirt up to the back of his neck. He hesitated slightly, and moved his hand around to my jaw, where he pulled his lips away only to touch mine with his thumb and open his eyes. We were so close, I could feel his breath on my own breath.   
I felt his lips turn upward in a smile against the edge of my mouth, and the soft, warm breeze float off his nostrils and caress me.  
I turned my head slightly so that I landed on his shoulder in a hug. The television was on silent, and his friend was still asleep. I moved my hand slowly down his bare spine. He was so slender then, I could feel every little bump and indent under his skin, bone wrapped around him so tightly.  
He kissed the side of my face covered by hair and swept fingers under my shirt, just below my armpit. 

"Michael,"

His voice taunted, his hands moved across my body like a boat on water. 

Although I dislike the sexual, and, in most cases, romanticizing of moments like this. We were innocent, having fun with each other as though there were no secrets to be had and kept, no noises to have been drowned out in fear of his parents discoveries of our endeavors. But, in his house that night, so close and warm with each other's bodies, I couldn't help but feel that as some sort of sexual awakening.   
I layed by him, he layed his head on my chest and his wrists on either sides of himself.

I couldn't sleep that night, but I turned off the television and removed the cassette tape, figuring it would be better for his mother to find it under his bed. 

I got to Joey's house in the dark, and turned off my headlights behind their little two-story. I stared at his back porch and my heart pounded. I could feel my eyes burning through their lids that coated them.   
He wanted to talk. He wanted to talk with me and eat the leftovers he had made with his girlfriend. She was asleep. 

I ran a hand through my hair. I was about to walk in on a dark room to hear him whispering to me. We'd go into the kitchen and talk about his life, he'd ask about my life, all while talking very quietly. 

I got out of the car and locked the doors. The ground was cold and the last streetlamp, several feet from his back porch, was off.   
My knocking on his front door was soft and obnoxious. I wanted to peer through his window and watch him walk to the door and answer it. I wanted to catch him without pants, scurry to his room to change, and answer the door.

"Hey," he held out his hand, but it was dark outside and darker still in the house. He turned the handshake into a motion, to which I smiled and stepped inside. 

"Mika still asleep?"

"Yeah,"  
He then turned on a light in the back of the kitchen, and I sat at the dining table.

"Coffee?"

"It's bedtime for me, right about now." 

He nodded and put the kettle down, coming over to sit right next to me. 

"What do you think would happen if I stepped out of my comfort zone,"

"What?" I paused at his forwardness. 

"I'm talking purely experimentally here,"

I looked at him, with the dim light in the distance I could only make out the outline of his lips, and the shadows around his eyes and nose. He was smiling, that sweet, animated smile. 

"To be honest, I just wanted to get you over here." 

I nodded

"Can I show you something?"  
He walked over to the back of the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and waved me over. 

"This is something—my mom painted."  
I looked through the dark, and he turned on a light inside of the dark cabinet. There was a portrait of him on his mother's lap, holding a book with a black spine and red front. I recognized him immediately, the striking resemblance and uncanny familiarity between him and the drawing. 

"It's beautiful."

"You think so?"

I nodded. He pointed to the title at the bottom of the frame, and moved his hand across mine, then gently squeezed my arm.   
I looked at him, he looked at me, and then I looked back at the portrait and read the little golden letters that made out just barely under years of dust.

"Joey and Joey"  
I smiled and he nodded.

"Not sure how long ago she painted it. Been here for decades."

He suddenly turned off the light inside the cabinet, closed the cabinet, and walked over to the fridge. 

"We made these weird biscuits—Mika likes matcha powder, not really my thing."

I walked over, and looked at his face in the drowning refrigerator light. He didn't look at me. 

"Try one," he finally beckoned, and caught me staring at him. I didn't turn away. 

"It's very sweet," he didn't seem to care. He brought out this plastic Tupperware container with Saran Wrap over the top and set it on the island. 

I went to open it, and he stared me dead in the face as I did so. 

I could see the veins in his arms, and his right arm, when it came up to the side of the cupboard, so close to mine. 

I took one out of the container and held it up to my mouth, gently breathing in the green powder to my nose. 

I watched him as he watched me, our eyes fixated on eachother, then he moved down to watching my mouth. 

I took a bite, chewing slowly, and licking my lips. There was something extremely intimate with having him watch me, my every movement, and when I lifted my right hand to wipe bits off my chin and cheek, his hand came up instead to take it away.   
I stopped chewing and watched him move closer to me.   
I bet, if he kept inching so close to me, he could feel my heartbeat, the race of my breathing, everything that made me so nervous to be around him.   
He licked the from my lips off his thumb, and I must have blushed red, because he smiled at me, and gently pushed the box away to get closer.   
I swallowed, and he moved his hand over mine, set idle on the cupboard.   
I felt so close to him. He moved so lightly over my forearm with his index finger, in such a sensual manner, it sent goosebumps down my arm. My hair stood straight. 

"Joey," I whispered. He looked up at me slowly. 

"Your girlfriend,"

He smiled gently, and turned his index finger movements into a light grasp that fell over the back of my hand. His other hand came up, just under the sleeve of my shirt, over my bicep, his thumb on my shoulder, and his mouth shockingly close to mine. I stared him down, moving my eyes over his face as though we were sorting eachother out. His thumb kept moving over my shoulder, then he moved his other hand back up my arm, bent my arm, and pressed me against himself. 

The kiss, I felt it linger far longer than I had anticipated. My hands traveled quickly up his back, one dragging his shirt upward, the other slowly inching to the back of his neck.   
He smelled like his girlfriend's shampoo, in an instance of realization that some factors of people do not change, he slowly pulled back and began kissing my neck. I sighed, I felt his tongue against my adam's apple, his hand tugging at the collar of my T-shirt, his other hand making its way down my stomach, my breathing fluctuated.   
I smiled and bit my lip, moved my hand over his head, and through his soft hair. 

He lifted my shirt, which peeled off my back, stuck from the rain outside, and kissed around my bellybutton, leaving tracks of warmth up and down my happy trail.   
His hands at both sides of me, he spiraled little circles with his thumbs up and down my hips and stomach.   
He licked, and moved his tongue fascinatingly well up and down the waistband of my underwear, pulling on my shorts wasteband, I watched my drawstring get pulled more and more out, breathing harder and harder, making my ribs bellow, and my stomach shake as his lips covered every inch of my body. 

He pulled my shorts down, kissing around my now throbbing bulge, and licking across my thighs. His hand slowly moved up to my chest and flicked my right nippe on its way up. I gently licked the tip of his index and middle finger before sticking them into my mouth and sucking, pretending they were everything I've ever wanted.   
He looked up with those dreamy brown eyes and pressed his cheek against my dick. I smiled and gently bit at his index finger, which he retracted and pushed into my mouth, circling around my lower lip before pushing it in again. 

He cupped my balls and I let out a loudly dramatic sigh, suddenly worried his girlfriend would wake up, I moved a hand gently over his face, he looked back up at me, and pulled down my boxers.   
I felt his hands, both of them, up my thighs, coming in over either sides of my dick, just at the base. 

"Joey," 

He looked up at me sweetly before licking the tip and making me shudder. He then took the tip into his mouth, and slowly panned down, until he was a little more than halfway and choked like he was about to vomit. I pressed my thumb into his chin and he slowly pulled off, before laughing and wiping his mouth, I pulled him up to me and kissed him, sneaking my tongue between his lips. I precame like a bitch, and he had some on the roof of his mouth. 

After he went down on me again, I had to pull him off me over and over in threat of cumming, he laughed and trailed his mouth around my thighs and up my back. I shuddered when his fingers trailed down my ass, right at my hole.   
Meanwhile, his mouth was still racing its way around my shoulders, my armpits, and back of my neck. 

"Joey," I whined when I heard him spit on his finger to push it slowly into my ass. 

"Hmm?" He hummed provocatively. 

There was something very erotic about hearing his voice in such a sexual manner, something laced with instinct and drenched in sex. 

I whimpered when I felt his tongue, grasped by god, travel down my back and flip over and over again against my hole.   
I bit my lip and looked behind me, as far as I could bend, I only saw the top of his head, which I grabbed at, pushing him farther down. I saw him look up at me, and I wiggled my ass over his mouth. 

"How are your lips so fucking soft," I moaned over his now harsh grasp of hands on my thighs. 

My dick was very hard, and twitched whenever he stuck his tongue further down my hole. 

He finally came up, trailing his tongue along my thigh and then back up my cock and stomach, I wrapped my hands around him and his kissed me, but only for a second before pulling away and putting his hand over my mouth.   
"Shhh,"  
He gently nipped at my earlobe and I breathed out quickly through my nose. 

"You don't want to wake her up, do you?" 

I shook my head, and his lips came back around and down to the brink of my neck, where he only lightly nipped but it drove me wild, sending me into a slight whimper, where he put a hand back over my mouth, and got back down on his knees to my dick, slowly licking around my balls, and only deepthroating after looking up at me first, to make sure I wouldn't cum down his throat. 

After a few minutes, he came up from behind me and pulled me into himself, he breathed into my ear something about lube, and then pulled away, only for a second, to get some from the cabinet he had shown me. I laughed for a sec without turning around and felt his lips turn upward against the back of my neck.

"You ready?" That damned accent, my cock twitched at the sound. 

"Yes, sir,"

"Sir?" I felt his hands travel down to my dick and his face plant against my back

"Say it again," he stroked my dick with one hand, the other hand he used to rub lube on my hole and his dick, which was sliding up and down the crack of my ass.

"Please, sir,"

He kissed my back, and then down to the middle of my back, where he finally decided to push himself inside.   
It hurt, the pressure and stinging, so I let out a little whimper, it couldn't have been loud enough to warrant him sticking his fingers in my mouth, though. 

"Joey," I moaned softly, head turned, our cheeks pressing together. 

"Hmm, does that feel good?"  
I nodded and he moved a hand down my neck, grasping lightly right above my collar bones.

He kept pushing in, and then slowly pulling out. I looked down, trying to stay quiet, and saw a small puddle of a precum mess on the kitchen tile by our feet.

"You're really tight, aren't you,"   
I nodded like hell and he kissed the back of my neck.

"Joey, if you keep——doing that, you're gonna make me-" he covered my mouth and loosened his grip on my cock, slowly moving over the head before letting it drop, moved his hand up my stomach and to my mouth, where he stuck his finger in and made me suck the precum off his hand. 

"You're gonna what?" He taunted me, and I grinded my ass into his dick, making him exhibit a series of groans into my shoulder, and grab onto my hair, pull my head back, making it easier for him to moan into my neck, so close to my ear. 

I grabbed onto his thigh with one hand and pulled him into me. Soon enough he grabbed me and pushed me into the wall, or rather, against the door leading to his garage. He then proceeded to drive himself into me, covering my mouth with his hand as to not let me make anymore noise as he already was, with his thighs hitting against my ass, I was shoved against the door, my face pressed so hard against it, but his hand cradled my neck, pulling me into him. My dick, which was pushed painfully against the door, he grabbed, twisting upward, and jerked until he felt my hand grab harshly against his thigh. 

"You gonna cum for me?" I quickly nodded, and he bit my shoulder, making me shudder and cum quickly.   
It was very intense, I'd been fucked before, but nothing as close and intimate as this. 

He let go of my cock when he felt it pulse a couple times, then my body jolt back into him. 

"Fucking Christ," he finally wallowed close enough to my ear to where I could hear the shaking and desperation in his voice. 

He attempted to pull out of me, but I felt him move and immediately pushed him against the wall by shoving him around with my ass. He responded by whining, and shooting his load deep into my hole. 

"You good?" I wiped the sweat off his forehead, after pulling myself off him.   
He smiled and shook his head. 

"It's been a while," he finally spoke, and then walked into the bathroom down the hall, out of the kitchen. 

I pulled on my boxers under loose shorts.

I guess, the accommodation, if this is what I was having to live with, wouldn't be that bad.


	2. 2

Yesterday was my turn to park in the gated parking garage at work, rather than in the busy Hawthorne street (portland), and as I was tentatively typing out our little ten digit code we all share to get behind the fence, my coworker (wearing normal clothing instead of the required coat and badge getup) came up to my car and knocked gently on the passenger window. 

I was a little hesitant at first, because despite our only glimpse of a relationship being entirely professional, the man was tall and loud and carried a picture of himself standing next to george strait in his ugly crocodile print leather bound wallet. He didn't talk politics but I knew the majority of what would be coming out of his mouth if he did; he came from a Christian heritage, and as far as I could tell kept religion higher than all else in his family.  
That being said, I waved at him and he looked behind my car before motioning me into the lot.   
Went in, parked next to one of the slots not taken by the blind commission people who shared the lot with us, and opened my door. He didn't move though, he just waited for the gate to close before coming up, arms crossed from the cold to talk to me.

Now, I like Portland. It's a nice visit here and there, but most of the time I'd rather be left to my own devices in a quieter place. Portland did have a lot of gay advantages, though; clubs, lgbt-based open houses and gatherings. It's a nice outing and occasionally I'd take a few friends out on the street and live a little.   
I didn't feel unsafe, or repulsed at all by living my own life out in public. 

Despite my conjuring efforts to ignore his sense of entitlement, when this 6'5/6'6 white boy with blond hair and blue eyes and a fascination for old country comes up to me, arms crossed and lips flat, I wasn't really expecting to be honored as a proud gay. I was more expecting him to pull one on me, to be honest.   
Don, that's his name, asked me if I had a key to the basement. I said I did. I took him down there, without saying anything, turned on the light, and the following interaction goes as follows:

"I hope you don't see me as a threat."

"What?"

"I know you think I'm some proud colonialist or something, but I can actually appreciate your sense of nihilism."

"Aren't you devout, sorry, I know you follow a church somewhere on the pearl district that restricts a lot of free thinking"

"I use it more as a getaway."

I left it at that: he could accept my way of life, probably did not want any part of it, but recognized me as a person nonetheless.   
He opened a metal crate labeled with some of our older labeling font, so I didn't have a clue what it could've been. Don was in his early 30s, only worked here for eight years (that's three my senior) so apparently his interests in history spread more from colonialist America to 80's/90's OSHA, if he knew exactly where to find these old, I'd-be-worried-if-they-still-worked laser tubes.   
He pulled one out and blew a bunch of dust off of it.

Conventionally, I immediately recognized the solemn haste and pain, and almost unknowing pain, in Don's words. In his demeanor, his typically furrowed brow turned soft, his cream complexion seemed pale and though I knew it from the cold, it was almost translucent, both physically, and in a crest, harbored type of manner. He was reserved when he wanted to be, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't notice the times he'd settle down and show more fatherly or boyfriend-like instinct in his actions than most great men I know, the only times I actually felt discomfort or, in most cases, a radicalized sense of hate for the guy, was when he was talking with our other coworkers his age; they were the same type: loud, country-bumpkins who followed suit on any republican candidates, and mellowed in the likes of of John Prine and Playboy mags.   
Without any conviction in his remaining attitude, though, Don was still a self-loathing heterosexual. 

"I wouldn't worry about the rats," I looked up at him, then around the dark, except for a tug-light-lit room hastily. 

"Rats?"

He tilted the hefty metal crate towards me and pointed his phone flashlight down in the bottom. Feces.

"Oh, well Mark (our boss) has some repellent."

"Don't work." He shook his head and motioned for me to follow him into a deeper part of the basement. It was dark and this time there was no tug-light, only the smell of unfurnished wood and the great big man standing directly behind me. The room was so small and the air so thin, I couldn't squeeze my way through these plastic storage containers and dusty crates, presumably also filled with more lab equipment.

He blended his knees in a squat and turned on his phone flashlight in order to look, or show me, a patch of fiberglass eaten by mice, and, worseyet, the devil's cat-killer. Seven little squares of it, none with bites taken out of them.   
A drift of air smelled like old spice when he bent down so quickly. 

"Put these down here weeks ago after finding the wall all chewed up, fuckers got around them and chewed it up even more. Completely ignored the poison."

"Why do you have to kill them, why not trap and relocate?" 

He looked up at me from over his shoulder and tilted his head before turning it to a shake. 

"Didn't your dad teach you anything about pest control?"

I bit my tongue and looked down. 

"He wasn't around much growing up."

"Explains a lot." 

I shook my head and turned to walk out of the room, heard him start to laugh and his feet shuffle to stand up, but then boxes shift and make a screeching sound, I turned around and he had fallen on the floor. Hair in his face, cross necklace chain exposed from his open collar, and midriff showing this sharp yet shallow line of messy brown strokes up from his waistline. 

"Damn," he whined and then showed a hasty expression on his face. 

I walked back over and held out my hand.

"Didn't think you were that old,"

He shoved it away. 

"Don't touch me,"

We parted ways after I went upstairs and changed into uniform, then he a few minutes later. 

The day felt rather surreal, because I saw him, alone, typing out on an old Dell laptop with his big hands, probably a little less than twice as big as mine.   
I thought about his little conversation starter, what he meant by it, and if he really did mean what he said.   
In some cases, this sense of reliance on earning a sense of, presumable forgiveness, is a product of an overly-observant, or already hurt being longing for something the object of their affection has already achieved.  
Although I liked to imagine, and look over occasionally to his big metal desk, he'd stare at the data samples laid out for him in excel or another part of the suite and see the ballpoint pen, the same type in my hand that looks so big, resting so graciously as merely a toothpick in those massive caricatures. He puts the cap end in his mouth, just behind his two front teeth, and backing into his gums, then he'd smile and, when I first started this job, it would send shivers down my back.   
I guess, in some way or another, the idea of being with this hurt person does bring water to my lips and blood to my dick. 

Toward the middle of the day, I spotted him out of the corner of my eye, stand up and walk to the men's room. I stood up, followed him and went in a few seconds after he did.   
He unzipped at the urinal closest to the wall, and i took the one three down from him.   
He looks over at me, then back in front of him and huffs. 

"Don't you think it's a bit ridiculous?"

He didn't say anything. 

"That you hate me for just being myself,"

"I don't hate you." He started his stream.

I started mine.

"It seems like you hate me." I said after I finished. 

I walked over to him, and he kept looking at me and looking away.   
I put a hand on his shoulder and his face turned a light pink color. He stopped peeing but didn't move. He looked down, and then I saw his problem. The man was hard, probably started with a semi and my touch just transfixed his yearning dick. 

I slowly moved my hand down his left shoulder, bulging bicep, and forearm.   
He breathed heavily as my index finger moved slowly over his hand, and then threw his head back, and I watched his once-loathing face now contort and turn bright red as I pet over his shaft.   
I kept moving my finger over him, and then slowly, he took my hand in his, already holding his hard cock, and stroked it with me.   
I kept watching his face, he bit his bottom lip until it turned white, and his speed got faster before he came over my fingers, his hand, and into the urinal. It couldn't have been more than a minute. He had it built up. Whether it be the pent-up frustration, or something he's always wanted, he came quickly, and then without looking at me, zipped back up and left without washing his hands. 

I did, however, wash my hands. I then pushed my semi back into my boxers and zipped up. 

When I came out, he pushed past me, carrying his keys and his white coat blew across me, leaving me left with the short but distinct smell of semen and old spice, must have been cologne.   
He stumbled to the door, typed out the same short code I did this morning, in order to escape this little temple-esque building.

I was not concerned. I've seen the face of a confused man, men, women, it's never not a clear sign of an epiphanic moment. He was about to go home and drink, or go home and lay in bed, turned to the wall for hours, and then refuse to eat when his wife asks him the inevitable "what's wrong, sweetie?" And he'll think,   
"Am I really this miserable monster?" But reply   
"Nothing honey; hard day at work is all."  
It's a mixture of both sadness and realization. The trick is to understand what the realization is. 

When I got home, and boiled myself some penne for a too-short amount of time just to pour cheese atop it and eat it quickly. I got a message, left on my work number; we have them up on a cork board for emergencies.   
It was a quick excerpt from the Bible. And it was spoken in a rushed, almost heathen-like tone, by none other than the devil himself. 

"Or do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit—-kingdom of God? Don't be deceived: neither the sexually immoral,—nor men who practice homosexuality, will inherit the kingdom of God. And such were some of you. But you-washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our—" the line cut off. 

I went to bed that night feeling a bit uneasy, a bit pressured to call back and leave a message for his wife about his secret desires, but refused myself that trauma and instead relished in the sweet release of sleep. 

The next morning was a Friday. I woke up to another message, this time left from a different number, but the man's voice was still cold, and even in a soft tone you could tell he was still on edge and even sounded a bit depressed. 

"I just want to make it clear- I'm not sure what you did to me yesterday, but I- it's not something I want to take part of but- I couldn't help feeling some type of way when you touched me like that," 

I held the phone to my ear and thought about his red face, his sharp, bulging and muscular arms, and the short, defined little breaths that escaped him while I stroked him to his pleasure-filled end.  
Make no mistake, I disliked the things he said, his ancient beliefs and ugly views under Catholicism. I only sought to relieve him in some way that actually relieved myself as well. 

I called back. 

"Hello?" His voice was raspy, it was about 7:20 or so, and I would've thought he'd be at work by now, I'm only running late because I considered this experience more worth my focus. 

"Hey." I heard him shuffle, like bedsheets, and imagined his wife sleeping next to him. 

"Do you want to come over?"

I didn't hear anything. I told him my address and hung up the phone. 

I was afraid he wasn't going to show up, it took him probably two hours to arrive at my door, and even then, he didn't knock. I had to discover he was there through the Ring doorbell app. 

"It's unlocked," I whispered through my phone.   
I heard the jingle of the knob, and then the door gently push open. There he was, tall, with the same scruff on his chin as yesterday; he normally shaved that 5:00 shadow, but there was something so masculine and intoxicating seeing him battered up, not shaven, he probably didn't shave under his arms, either.   
I walked into the laundry room and stood a little more than a foot away from his face.   
There was something about the smell of Old Spice and the sight of a broken man that gave me this destined feeling. This smallest loss of innocence, and his loss of religion, it was almost euphoric. 

We stared at each other for what couldn't have been more than a few seconds before he stepped fully inside my little, bottom-floor studio, and shut the door behind him.   
He opened his mouth to speak, but just let a deep breath escape his half-opened mouth, and trailed me with his eyes, landing on my loose Nikes. 

"How do you do it?" He didn't even look up from my crotch area. 

"It's not even you," He finally looked up at me, but avoided eye contact. 

"I think it's just the stimulation."

"Of another man?"

He closed his eyes and looked away, almost cringing at the answer. 

"It's a different feeling, is all. I'm not a faggot for feeling a way I can't-you know, can't control." 

I nodded, half-heartedly. This gross sympathy was something I could only pretend to feel for him. 

"I don't even know what I-" I reached out and put my hand to the side of his torso, slowly tracing down his hip bone and felt the waistband of his underwear, then the cold of his below-room-temp hand graze lightly against the back of my own.   
I looked up at him. He was staring at me.   
I don't know if it was the chill of his presence, or the haste in his words, maybe even just the stature of his build, but I kissed him. 

At first, he just kept his lips flat, but then he puckered and kissed back.   
His lips were soft, a bit chapped, but soft. And his beard was scratchy and smelled like the rest of his body. I took a long breath in through my nose just to catch it all.

I felt his left hand trail down my arm, then down to my own torso. It was one of the most romantic feelings I've ever felt for another person, just standing there in his arms, I wish I didn't feel this sense of both pride and exhilaration thinking back on it. He was probably seven inches taller than me, and standing there with him looming over me, breathing this unsteady pattern, it made me bloom. 

I kissed the outside of his armpit, and he began undoing his top buttons.   
He soon revealed this beautiful, surprisingly-less-hairy-than-I-thought would be chest. I kissed his collar bone, and down the little patches of hair leading down to his happy trail, which I also unbuttoned to reveal.   
I licked his hip bones, and felt around his growing bulge. I could tell he wasn't massive, probably bigger than me, though.   
I moved my tongue slowly across his bulge and moved my hand up his leg, feeling goosebumps arrive as I did. 

"Bite it," I looked up at him and he blushed slightly.   
I kept licking at his bulge, but took it in my mouth before unzipping him. That made him let out a strong breath from his mouth. 

After thoroughly kissing up and around his cock, it was evident he was precumming something awful. Although not terribly vocal, his hands made fists, and his legs occasionally shook when I licked around his bush or kissed around his balls.   
When he came, he pulled me off his cock and went to town, spilling on my lips, and grabbing my hair tighter as he shot. He tasted salty and sweaty and, I think it may have been from pent-up rage. 

When he left, it was around 9. He spent a little time in my bathroom after I blew him, and I thought he was taking a shower, but thinking back, he might've been jerking off. 

I've been thinking about it for a few days now, and it's really been sort of a problem for me, thinking of these things he's said to me in the workspace, and the juxtaposition of that between my apparent feelings for him.


	3. 3

My friend and I used to do this thing where we'd go to each other's houses on the weekends and get wasted, the excuse being that neither of us wanted to drink alone, and it was dangerous going out to drink with strangers.   
We'd start with something very innocent; listening to some of the music he'd have been working on consistently for however long, or I'd plug my little iPod touch into the aux: we liked sitting in his dad's car because it had a heating system and the inside of his house was very cold, and listen I'd listen to his mini critiques of Alphaville and Jason Molina's vocal structure as heard from his perspective; alone, legs up and in the back seat, totally distorting any sound coming from the main speakers. 

If I had known, at the time, that he had this, understandable, crush on the male singers he liked to criticize me for listening to, I would have listened, and further, talked to him in attempt to break his mind away from whatever was holding him hostage in this cage of fragility and internalized self-hatred.   
After a while the watered-down rum would wear us down, and I can only very vaguely recollect on what we sounded like or spoke about, but we'd eventually start laughing at something, or nothing, and he'd roll over to put his hand over the back of my seat and gently mull over my shoulder with his thumb. I remember the touching because it wasn't something either of us experienced casually, so my, and I assume our reminiscing on these, presumably soft-spoken conversations that lead us to moving over each other's bodies never came without a following undertone of either awkwardness or enthusiasm. 

I found a magazine in his backpack. That's how I found out. He showed me, actually.  
He came up to me at school and said something along the lines of 

"I found this in my dad's room", then pulled out just the top of the mag from his backpack. Didn't immediately recognize it because I wasn't a deviant, but during lunch he asked me to go in the courtyard with him and nobody else. It was an old issue of Cybersocket. No idea where it even came from.  
We arranged more plans, adding on to the ones already in place to meet at his place on Saturday, that meant for us to hang out twice in the same week.   
I showed up around ten on Tuesday. I didn't have anything important, school-related, Wednesday or Thursday. I could open the door to his house pretty easily, and without a key because he didn't believe he was under any risk of an intruder or masked-cartoon-villain burglar in the neighborhood he lived in. 

He was moving furniture around when I opened the front door. I could hear him in the kitchen, sounded like someone hitting metal with a hammer. He had stacked the bar stools up on eachother like children's alphabet blocks. I asked him why he did it and he didn't give me an answer immediately. I wasn't blind, and he had enough social patency to estimate when conversations could escalate to the realm of becoming undignified and awkward. I recognized an almost sweet sense of vulnerability in his eyes, when he looked at me for less than a second, then back down at his barstool creation, I also recognized the redness on his forearms and low-hanging eyebags. 

I'd seen him high on medication before, but only when he was actually sick, and it was an accident that he had taken a small, barely-considered overdose amount of Benadryl. 

I took him into the bathroom and gently pet his hair and soft cotton on the back of his shirt as he threw up into the toilet. 

I don't remember how long he cried afterwards. He wrapped his arms around me and let me gently kiss the back of his hands. I didn't want to let him feel as though it were his fault, at this point I had only walked in to find him like this; had I come any later, I don't like pondering on the outcomes. 

There was something in the back of his mind, he kept telling me, that made him want to do this to himself, and constantly, he said.   
He told me he'd sometimes lay awake at night and jerk off to the magazine. I told him that it was alright, and didn't really mean a lot. He disagreed, but kept his arms wrapped around my body and head curled against my chest as we rocked back and forth on the bathroom floor.   
We probably stayed for an hour or so. There was no governed prospect in anything I said to him, because I felt as though the only things I could tell him were very simple, anecdotal statements, and had to be meant only as encouragement or, as I saw it, compliments.   
We were whispering. He asked me if I thought his hair was stupid and I kissed the top of his head. 

"Why would I think that?"

"Because it is"

"No, it's not" 

He shook his head and slowly began retracting his arm from around me. I let him, and he very graciously, yet in a seemingly-painful manner, sat up. His leg was still folded over mine and from afar we must have looked reminiscent to a paper crane. I moved my hand over his upper back and he looked through my eyes like a ghost. 

"You staying the night?"

"Yes." I didn't retract my hand. He slowly turned his back on me, only to lean back, over my knees, and rest his head in my lap.

"You don't have stupid hair." I pet over his hair as I spoke, very softly, my mouth almost directly over his forehead. He smelled vaguely like the incense he burned by the fireplace to keep the weed stink to a minimum. He didn't reek, though, so I assumed the only drug in his system were the pills he'd taken.   
It was Codeine. I knew because he took Acetaminophen occasionally before school to stop the headaches that kept him in bed all the time.   
I asked him calmly if he'd been drinking. He said he hadn't, and I leaned in very close to the side of his face to smell his breath, but he turned to face me and our noses crushed into each other. I didn't move. He didn't smell like alcohol. I gently kissed the top of his mouth.   
He opened his eyes, which I realized he had closed for the moment. 

"Do you get it?" I wanted to, but only wanted to.

"I get you, probably more than anyone else."

"More than anyone else."

His reaction times were very quick. We didn't move from being so close to each other. I wanted nothing more than to comfort him, but I recognized that he was slowly coming back to his senses.   
I knew, obviously, that he wouldn't feel the same. He might, subconsciously, still want something, want to feel something, but between me and him, it was strictly friendly. 

Later that night, after I spent a good hour and a half trying to convince him to just go to bed, and that I would be here in the morning, he eventually convinced me to stay up with him and watch a movie.   
Halfway through the tormented but basic love story of Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock, he told me, hesitantly but sensibly, about the feelings.   
It started with the crushes. He told me in both little and disgusting detail about the feelings he'd encountered over men. The kids at school, middle school, then the locker rooms in highschool. He stopped going to gym halfway through Sophomore year because he couldn't stand in the locker rooms comfortably. 

Looking back, it was his misdirection. This sweet, yet discreet mesmerization in his tone. The quiet movements that seemed so basic and mindless; hand barely even touching my shoulder, yet made me want to jump out of my skin. Arm folded over the blanket, his long fingers bending and worming around the fabric like dancing pairs. 

He told me about the celebrity crushes he'd faced; the focus on Jason Molina's personality more than appearance made it apparent to him that his attraction to men was something more than physical, yet the attention he paid to Ben Watt in his younger years, and another member of a band he criticized, made him recognize that there was definitely a sexual side to his inhibitions about men.  
I didn't ask him about me, or any of our friends. 

He told me, and very lightly, almost casually if he hadn't looked up to me for some sort of approval, with those soft eyes and torturous lips, that he loved me. I didn't ask for any further clarification until after the movie was over, to which he didn't give any reason or meaning to the statement.   
He told me he loved me, and he played with the neck collar of my shirt while staring intently at my chin.   
Sharing some sort of hoping was a sort of coping for him, and the both of us.   
I left the end credits of the movie to roll, despite the remote being right beside me, the music being relatively loud, and it being somewhere around 2 in the morning.   
We stared at singular parts of each other. 

His left wrist. Very thin, kind of pale. 

His neck. A little bit of hair beneath his jaw. 

Small parts of his body, cemented into my brain. The most important things I can remember.

His body was extremely soft. His neck was like porcelain as I drew my hand across it. It couldn't have lasted more than a couple minutes, the gentle movements, the way his fingers left goosebumps around my stomach, up and down my sides.   
We kissed like we'd been married forever. His breath didn't smell great, and I realized I should have gotten him to brush his teeth. 

"Do you think of things like I do?" I didn't know. I knew what he meant, but I didn't know the answer at all. 

"I think of things as anyone does. As you do. But your way is not interchangeable to mine."

"I think a lot about the past. More so than the future."

"We all do that"

"There's this cliff in St Helens. I go there sometimes and there's always other people there. And they're not sad, I can tell" 

People make geographical discoveries constantly. I disregard the situation for his remarks. 

"I don't think about jumping."  
I nod.

He told me he throws things off the cliff. Little things, like pebbles. Sometimes he throws keychains. He said one time he threw his keys and immediately regretted it. Had to go down into the ditch to dig for them, and it changed his perspective. He said it felt as though he was isolated from the human race, the human planet. He said, at the time, it was so dark out, but being down at the bottom of the cliff, he couldn't tell night from day. 

I suppose it had something to do with how far down the cliff went. I didn't ask how he got down there. 

He fell asleep in my lap. I was left alone in this community of night lamps and the music from Speed quietly pacing in the back of my mind. The paint on his wall might as well have been Braille telling me to leave when I ran the back of my hand over it to cool down from his sweat and my already clenching body heat. 

I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to wake him up only to kiss him over and, all over. Though I felt bad making some sort of sexualization from the experience and trauma he'd encountered, this was my first experience with a man. This was his, as I presumed. I asked him a couple days later and he confirmed it through light pink cheeks. 

I wish we talked as much as we used to. We carry each other on our backs as much as we can, but after highschool, which was not something I was expecting to be as a frame for our relationship, we really only called when he was going through something. I came to his place, and the old reunion ensued. Now it seems like defamation whenever I even mention his name out loud. Or, if he comes across my mind, I get this kind of sick feeling. 

I don't have any plans on doing anything else with him. I think we've helped each other, and though I consider life through the perspective of nihilism, I'd like to think this is where our lives should separate. 

The first man to ever touch me, say he loved me, and comfort me as I comforted him.   
Now, I listen to some artists and need to hold my breath as to not be reminded of him.


	4. 4

I was in a relatively horny state my sophomore and junior years of uni. I don't really think they subsided much my senior year, either—the thoughts I mean.   
I spent a lot of time at the bar closest to school. Just this little hotel-esque family-type lounge in an old college town. 

I had a couple friends, this one kid who liked to call himself Mercutio because he was a Puerto Rican guy with curly hair and the bluest eyes you've ever seen, and he knew how attractive he was, too. There was another guy—this really pretty white guy with light brown hair that had been bleached and dyed so many times you could see the little gray hairs swimming all around the front and back underlay of his hairline.   
He was the one I was more fond of, to be honest, because he had this great movie actor voice that made me overly-excited when he laughed, and threw his head back and nearly fell off his damn bed anytime anyone cracked a joke a bit too funny for him.   
No kidding—I was head over heels for the guy. He was a little older than me, but a junior, also a former football player—think he was kicked out because his ex, a girl named Brit, used to tell me vaguely about his experiences of getting hit in the balls when on the field. I'm pretty sure she also had a thing for the guy-on-guy shit, which I didn't mind at all.

One time Mercutio made us—me and Dylan (that was his name) and Brit and a couple of our mutuals I didn't know too well come down to the common room on our floor so he could toss the shit with us. Apparently he wanted to recite some nonsense one of his teachers had written down on his transcript, but he never got to it because he was so hammered. He wanted us to pregame with him, for what I Don't Know, but he was sweet and fruitful so I joined in a bit. I was not a big drinker, but Dylan was, and in our tiny—Mercutio and I's—dorm room, we drank Pepsi and bud light. Four months prior I had told Dylan I was gay, and nonchalantly in fear of him running away or whatever guys like that do when they find out something that startles them. He didn't run, so I don't take him for one of those guys—I probably never should have because he doesn't particularly look like one of those guys; tall, a bit bulky, but he always replaced the beer weight with muscle. Anyway, he drank with me in the room, and called his girlfriend to come join us. I liked Brit enough to hold an hour-long conversation with her. She was definitely not too much of an intellectual, and had bright-blond hair. Dylan used to have blue hair, I learned from when he showed me his highschool picture day photo circa around 2014. We must have left to see what the hell Mercutio was complaining about in the common area—he told us to meet at, about ten hours later. People, in like the thousands it seemed, kept coming into my dorm without knocking, and talking to Dylan, then to Brit, then maybe to me. Maybe I was actually too blazed to notice. Tell me something, though, and I'll remember it, no matter how drunk. 

We got to the commons and Mercutio was laughing about this little letter, if you could even call it that, left on his transcript. He was talking as if he had just been punched in the face a million times. I kept looking at Dylan because for some reason he looked really good under the artificial LED lights; his hair was pushed back and his skin was really clear, as if it wasn't normally. He was wearing a light blue crew with the words "portland marathon" in black and white on the front. His eyes were really pale, but his face was a bit flushed, I presume it from the alcohol. He was not at all a lightweight—as one might suspect. He was my height, give or take three inches. His girlfriend was wrapped around him tighter her hot pink tube crop.   
I looked at her face when she stared up at his sweet smile. She was smitten—and hammered.   
Mercutio kept going on about this little note he had on his transcript. Something about needing to work harder on certain writing material and whatnot. I didn't blame his teachers—if his test scores Freshman year were anything like his test scores now.   
I went outside about a half-hour in, because Mercutio had stopped talking and I found this to be the only time to catch a smoke. 

Dylan saw me, and asked me to wait up, but I told him I needed to take a call because I really needed this one hit apparently. I left and went out through the worst stairs in the whole building. They smelled like piss and old concrete. You know the malted o-zone layer smell. A disgusting petrichor and bean-soup smell. I think one of the janitorial staff liked to come back here and jizz on the walls, too, because they were always filthy.   
I had this little white zippo I stole from my dad when I was fifteen or sixteen. I wasn't depressed or anything—just frustrated a bit.   
Dylan came out during my second drag. 

"You did not wait up" 

"I needed to take a call"

"Addict—hand it" he took the joint from me and a drag, I watched him press his soft lips against the paper and breath in slowly as I blew smoke out my own nose. 

"I've really been feeling it tonight, yknow?"   
I nodded. I didn't know. 

"Sunday morning I have this meet at my uncle's house. He's really big on personal hygiene, even though—I mean you know my family is kind of hippy crazy or whatever. Keruak shit, but he doesn't like kids who smoke, or he calls it burning wood, which is the gayest shit ever—sorry. I can't wait until I get out of here man, after college I'm getting the hell out this little town. You said something about farming? My dad was a farmer before he fell in love with my mom and all the Keruak bull. Not that I-you know. It's no big. It's like his escape or whatever. I need a—what's that Christian shit called?," 

"Great Friday"

He nodded. Took a really long drag and kept talking. I was listening really intently, but sometimes just looked up at the side of his face instead of really really listening. I wanted to watch his mouth move is all. 

"I'm right, I think it's a good thing to celebrate shit before you let go of it so quickly. though, I think if I were to drink and drink and then drink a million drinks in one day, the day before I stop drinking forever, I'd die. Emotionally too—you saw that documentary in LA last year, about the guy who wanted to rewrite Of Mice and Men? It's like, the world is changing entirely," 

I looked at him. 

"What?"

"Yeah, what, man."

I looked at him for a real long time. He was really dragging on my joint. I could hear this music from the dorm above our heads. I recognized the music and realized it was probably not from a party but just a sad kid alone in his room. I think a lot of time about the kids in this university, living alone and not even going out to parties, or bars, or hanging out with people like Dylan and Mercutio. I can have a million crushes on a million different people and of course, they'd still be there, in the same building. I was really high. I was very much a lightweight. 

"Do you feel like you're moving away from it all, like literally starting to go somewhere else?" I asked him while staring at the floor. I felt the brink of my neck with my right hand.

"What?"

"Like, I'm here now, but a lot of the time my mind is completely somewhere else" 

"Like you're daydreaming. Yeah."

"Kind of."

"I don't remember most of my daydreams. It's like I see a person-think about something, and I come back to whatever-reality, and they're staring back at me"

We didn't say anything else. I smoked and blew smoke into the wind, that just blew it right back in my face. I think I was getting too cold, because Dylan asked if I wanted to go back in, even though he followed me out here. 

I went with him, though. He told me about the last time he played football, which was a story I'd heard half a million times. I asked if he liked the idea of a bunch of guys playing together, but not in a sexy way, more in an interested way. I told him that I did.   
He was kind of interested in that—he really liked hearing other people talk about sex, I think—partly because I once asked him if he liked other people talking about sex and he laughed and said yes, and partially because he was always asking everyone, girls and boys. It's weird that he didn't like Jack Keruak in that sense. 

We sat down at one point. I think the music stopped around then, and it was so dark that the school was locking up for the night. He put a rock in between the door and the pavement. I asked him questions about his sexuality, and he seemed kind of nervous talking about it so I didn't pressure him at all. He kept asking me personal shit, though. He asked what my favorite feature on a guy was, my first experience. I told him, my first experience, that I was fourteen. I wasn't fourteen. I wanted to seem more educated and experienced that I assumed he was. 

He told me about his first time. He said it was with a girl he only knew the first name of. He said she was not from the states and that her mom had the same name as his mom. I didn't like the way he talked about it, because it seemed like he was more interested in something else. I wasn't looking at him, but one point I looked at the ground between my legs, and next to me his hand was really close to me. That startled me a little bit because he was so non-touchy around anyone, much less me, I guess. Maybe it was only a placebo after hearing about all the gay guys losing their straight friends after coming out. 

He looked up at me, and told me he wanted to go back in. He asked if we could talk in the downstairs commons. That was the big hallway in the school. I didn't recognize it at all because I didn't have friends that lived downstairs, plus our hall light was off. He took me by the wrist and led me down the hall. I kept giggling, and trying not to because I knew how gay it made me seem. He was smiling though, I knew because when we got downstairs his face was a little pink and his mouth was moving a lot up and down like you do when you're trying to suppress a laugh.   
The hall downstairs had its light on. There were two kids in the library next to the main common room with the tables and vending machines. We sat down and talked kind of quickly and quietly. I was sort of out of breath and my heart was beating pretty fast from him half-running me down the hall, and touching me on my arm. He put both his hands on the table and then behind his back. He kept moving like that, I remember very clearly because he never seemed nervous. He always seemed cool and calm-collected.  
He got serious as hell after a few minutes. He began shaking his head and rubbing his forehead and asking me if I loved him. He did that sometimes. I thought it ironic, again because he didn't like the touching stuff but he did things like that when he drank. He would ask you stuff like "do you love me" or about mental health or liking girls or guys, and I'd answer pretty sincerely, kind of because I knew he wouldn't remember half of it in the morning.   
I said I did love him, and he reached over to my end of the table and gently tapped the wood. I put my hand out slowly and he grabbed my wrist.   
He started talking about me having really thin wrists, then we just started shooting the shit about stuff like how feminine features are typically looked at as gay on guys and masculine features on girls as lesbian. He kept touching my wrists.

Eventually, I asked if he wanted to go to sleep. He told me he didn't. I asked if he wanted to go see Brit. He was a lot worse off than me, I could really tell, because it was around three, and he had almost an entire joint. He told me he really didn't want to go to sleep, or see Brit, because he didn't want to think of going back to seeing his family. I asked him a little bit about that, but he wasn't really into talking about it. I moved a little close to him and he put his head on my shoulder, comfortably, not sexually and I didn't sexualize it then.   
Finally, he told me it was too cold in the commons. It was, kind of. He was wearing his old marathon crewneck I'd seen a million times, with this massive goddamn hole in the collar and armpit. The amount of times Brit told him it was gross when he lifted his arm and she could smell his armpit, boy.   
He started walking down the hall pretty slowly, and I followed him. He kept looking behind me to see if I was still behind him, then he stopped and I bumped into him. He made me stand in front of him, then. He actually smelled good, like, really masculine, like deodorant and kind of like weed but it wasn't discrediting to his natural smell. He started to lean on me again, and touch my arm, again. We got to my dorm in the dark, and I walked in and didn't turn on the light, but he did when he walked in, and I saw Mercutio wasn't asleep in his bed. 

He walked over and sat right on my bed. I told him he could sleep there, if he wanted, and he nodded and layed down on his back, kind of spread out, so that I could see his stomach. He was spending a lot of time on the weights this year, you could tell. He kept telling Brit that it was his new thing; he was going to be able to bench some super high millstone by the end of the semester. 

I walked over to him. His eyes were wide open, and he sat up a little when I sat on the end of the bed. I don't even know why, he just started taking my shirt off. It was so slowly, and I wasn't even startled by it, like at all. He kissed the side of my arm, really lightly. I didn't face him, he just sort of touched my torso. My right arm, shoulder then down to my elbow. My left arm next. My left arm had this awful scab on the forearm, and his drove his fingers over it awfully slow. Man, I felt kind of like I was going to throw up. I was really excited and it was really nerve-wracking, also. 

He started touching my pecks, then moved one hand up to my neck. He whispered something really softly in my ear. I told him I really liked it when guys touched my neck like he did, that was the first thing I said, and so he kept one hand over my adam's apple. He trailed one hand down to my stomach, and just touched around my belly button, down to the waistband of my sweatpants. I asked him if he was alright, he didn't say anything, but he turned my head to face him and kissed the side of my mouth really gently. Then I touched the side of his face, and turned even more to face him. He smelled like weed very aggressively when he opened his mouth, and I kissed him really lightly, because I didn't want him to back away so suddenly. He kept staring me directly in the eyes as he touched me. I noticed he was trying to untie my drawstring. Once he got it, I kissed him again, just on the side of the face. He pulled my pants down a little, and I pulled them down farther when I stood up. He took the chance to pull his shirt off over his head, too. His body was very smooth, he had this small amount of hair around his stomach, and almost a light dusting on his pecks. His build was fantastic, too. He had these great arms, I kept taking advantage of every chance I got to grab them, and try to wrap my hands around his big biceps. He would giggle a bit whenever I kissed his giant arms. I would ask him "what?" And he would shake his head and touch my face or stomach again.   
His hands were about the same size as mine, and he would move them directly above my boxers. It was really obvious how hard I was at this point.   
He finally touched my boxers when I kept touching his. His pants were still on, but his fly was unzipped. I think he was still nervous of Mercutio walking in on us.   
I pet the back of his head and messed up his hair just a little bit. He took my wrists and gently pressed them against his crotch. I touched him more, and took a painful while before pulling his dick out. He was pretty hard. I was probably definitely harder. He pet around my shaft, and finally took mine out, too. It was insane, I could barely look at him as he stroked me. He moved in between my legs, and kept looking up at me. He moved a hand from my dick to my mouth, and then moved my face to make me stare at him.   
I really got off to the fact that he wanted me to stare at him as he jerked me off.   
It only took a few minutes, too. In college I didn't masturbate too frequently, so I suppose that was why.   
He kissed around my thighs a bit when he noticed my breathing speed up. I didn't say anything, so I suppose that's how he knew. I came on his chin. He tasted some of my cum, too. 

I noticed he was pretty hard when he came up and sat next to me. I kissed his chin, and around his face, anywhere but his lips, though then I did kiss his mouth and he pulled me in a bit. I really liked that he was able to kiss me, and touch me like he did, without freaking out or whatever—those guys—did. He really did smell like weed. I kissed a bit around his torso, then focused my attention to his dick. He was bigger than me, and pretty hairy around the balls. Thick thighs, and thicker dick. He pushed me a bit, so I went down on him pretty quickly. The first time, he pushed a lot, and I choked a bit, because he pushed me all the way down my throat, then made a sound, which made me put my hand over his mouth a bit. I kissed around his head, then went down a little slower than first, and he seemed to calm down a bit when I went slower like that. I sped up, gradually though. He seemed to like it a lot, because his feet would clench up, then unclench whenever I came back up. I saw the movement in his chest pretty clearly, too.   
He finally came on my mouth, without warning, he just sort of gasped, and pulled me off of his dick. He then laughed and apologized, but I kissed his stomach, then licked him off my lips, and kissed his lips when he leaned in a bit.   
He stayed in my bed, we talked a little bit about practically nothing, and only for about a minute, because he fell asleep almost immediately after. I did get him to buckle back up, though. 

The rest of the night was alright. I cleaned up a bit, and went to bed. The next morning we laughed a bit about this picture his nephew drew. It was entirely nonsensical, but he seemed fine, pretty much just the same. I don't know exactly how it would have been if we had just talked the whole time, though. I mean, if I was jerking him off and asking him how it felt—not like about the weather, or some shit. That's about it. His girlfriend slept through practically the entire day, too, so I talked a bit to Mercutio, and we were going to go to some museum downtown, but Dylan decided to stay home, and not necessarily because of his girlfriend, but I kind of took the hint and went with Mercutio. He seemed alright after that, because we talked like normal.


	5. 5

October of 2016 was the first time I actually took dick.  
Before that I'd done anal, being a top, with a few guys, but I consider this time my best, and really when I fully developed myself in terms of sexuality. 

I was nineteen, shorter than I am now, and lived with this girl I'd known for a while. In highschool, we were both familiar with each other from being in the same Phys Ed class. I guess we were relatively good friends before moving in, because she comforted me after I was outed my Junior year. 

She dated a guy I didn't know, but liked, because he was tall and muscular, as muscular as you could get as a teenager, and one of the only black kids in our predominantly white school.   
We were in the same AP classes, and he was always the kid to answer questions without having raised his hand. Teachers liked him. The soccer coach liked him. I went over to his house with my friend, his girlfriend, one time after school, and was greeted by his wheel-chair-bound mother, who adored him and praised him for having multiple friends on top of all the extracurriculars he engaged in. 

We went into his room upstairs, he had two cats asleep on his bed, and although messy he apologized and turned on this large old school stereo system connected to his MacBook.   
This was the first time I really began to culminate my crush on him, because despite expecting to hear any semi-alternative rapper blast through the old speakers, and one I could enjoy to an extent, and preliminarily with the both of them, I heard none other than Kate Bush, and this wave of excitement rolled over me, as if I was experiencing something completely out-of-body. 

It continued to fluctuate—my crush on him. Every day, I would wake up, and before doing anything else, check my phone. I just wanted to hear something from him. I assume that's how most crushes go. And, although I knew he was, or thought he was, straight, I always loved to imagine. 

It was late October, just before Halloween, I got a text from my friend asking if I wanted to come over. She said a few other people, including him, would be there too.   
Of course I obliged. Even though I expected them to want to go out to some party somewhere downtown, I wanted to spend as much time as I could with this guy who barely knew who I was.   
I showered and asked her if anyone was dressing up—dumb question, as I see it now, but she told me her friend was going as a "sexy mummy". I decided that was her way of telling me what a dumbass I was for asking, so I showed up in shorts and timbs. 

I wasn't good at driving, and didn't like driving, but despite wanting to beg her to pick me up, I decided to drive myself—this is important, because I was, at the time, the only kid who owned a car not co-owned by my parents. I knew they'd want me to drive them to wherever they were planning on going to.   
Somewhere around seven I left, locked my door and called my dad to tell him about my prosperous endeavors.   
Her house was in Hawthorne, a little less than three miles away. 

She was standing in her driveway, a few feet from the garage door. Fresh-faced Indigo—not his real name, but the color of his room—stood, looming over my friend like protecting her from the rest of the planet.   
I got out and immediately shivered, cradling myself like a child as I looked both ways through hazy, streetlight-lit darkness of what had to be millions of cars lining the road. I'm not a parallel parker myself, but found it justifiable to park close enough to her dad's car that it was out of the way of any threat traffic could bring, but blocked him from getting to work if I was still there in the morning.

"No wonder you're freezing. Are you wearing shorts? It's like sixteen out tonight."

I shook my head. "Eighteen", I smiled and jingled my keys. 

"We going somewhere?"

"Were," my friend sighed, and I then saw one of our mutual friends sitting idle in her parent's driveway. 

"Don't wake her," my friend gestured to the medical band on her wrist. Something about her stomach being pumped. 

"She's good though?" Indigo lifted her by her shoulders, and my friend lifted her legs to take her upstairs. 

"Yeah, passed out like five, ten minutes ago." I nodded and got in front of Indigo to help lead him into the house as he had his back to the door.   
I watched them move her sleeping body into a bedroom while my friend half-heartedly explained that it was actually from raw crawfish and indeed not alcohol.   
Indigo pointed to my legs.

"You're not freezing?"

"I'm alright," I gulped when his hand lightly grazed over my right arm. 

We had to stay inside the whole night, because my friend wanted, of course, to watch over the kid passed out in her parent's bedroom. Our other mutual and his brother decided not to show after Indigo explained to them the situation. 

"We should watch a romcom. We're practically stuck in one now." Indigo shook his head. 

"She literally always wants to watch a romcom."

"It's the best type of movie. And if not now, when?"  
He shook his head again, but flipped over to Netflix and began sorting. 

"Do you really listen to Kate Bush?" It was a really out-of-place question, but genuine, and my friend looked at me from behind her boyfriend with a dumb expression. 

"Uh, as much as anyone else, why?"

I shook my head. 

"Do you listen to Kate Bush?" He turned away from the TV to look at me. 

"Yeah." I nodded.  
He nodded. 

"My mom used to really like her. When she was in the hospital we would listen to her together, because she sang me this one song by her when I was a baby. I don't remember it, but she likes to think it calmed me, which I guess it did, but only because it calmed her more."  
He turned off the TV after speaking.

I nodded and explained to him vaguely about my fascination for her wording and childlike interface in her lyrics.   
I loved the dynamic between him, this tall, frat-like, athletic runner, and the sweet, sometimes startling yet charming vocal patterns of Kate Bush.   
My friend had left, and gone into her parent's room with the door shut. I didn't suspect our other friend to be awake yet. 

The TV wasn't on. It was just Indigo and I talking. As far as relationships go, he seemed very laid back. I knew his mom dated a woman at one point, because my friend mentioned it to me, I guess it was in college though, because she married, got pregnant with Indigo, and divorced immediately after.   
He told me he loved his mother more than anyone when I asked him about his relationships. He told me he believed in everything she says, because he trusted her more than anyone.   
I told him the relationship he had with his mother was sweet, and desirable as many people have to ask for their parent's affection. I asked if we should check in on our friend. He shook his head and instead wanted to go on a walk with me. 

It was very cold outside, I'll admit, and he understood without me having to say anything. He took off his jacket and put it over my shoulders like a couple in a fifties movie.   
Talking more, and side-by-side, it was a lot easier to establish how down to earth he really was.   
He easily could have impressed me with vocabulary, or knowledge over the literature he'd read, but instead wanted to talk to me about relationships and, more specifically, friendships.   
At one point, he asked me what I thought it meant when two guys, guys specifically, feel comfortable enough with each other to do things with each other that they'd typically only do with girls.   
I didn't look at him when I asked what he meant. He bumped my bicep with his, and got me to look him in the eye. 

"You know I'm bi, right?"  
I nodded. I didn't. 

"Okay,"

"___ and I aren't doing well." I looked at him, and stopped walking. We were walking back to her house at this point. 

"What do you mean,"

"She keeps insinuating shit-" 

"That's not what I meant,"

"Yeah, well," he shook his head and looked at me.   
"I'm just curious."

"You think it's a good idea for us to, whatever?"

He stopped looking at me, and we kept walking in silence. 

"I think it's a good idea for me to, for you to, experiment. I'm comfortable with you, I just want to feel something different."

I knew he was referring to something emotionally different, but it got me hard, what he said. 

We went behind the house instead of inside it. 

He didn't kiss me. He took my hand and told me to turn around to face the back of the house. I did, and could feel my boner press against the brick chimney.   
He told me to spread my legs, I did, and he touched along my thigh, then up my ass slowly, on my right side. 

"She's not coming back," he whispered in my ear, and then lightly kissed my cheek. 

"What-What did you tell her?" He hushed me, and touched down the back of my right thigh. I was loving it, not having ever gotten any attention on my ass before. 

"I said we went for a walk."

I moved my hand behind me to touch his stomach. He reached around and gently felt my bulge. 

"That exciting, huh?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

He slowly rubbed my bulge through short basketball shorts, before peeling off his jacket and dropping it next to me in the grass. 

"You've never done anything with a guy?" I softly asked when I knew he was very close to me, because I felt his breath against my neck. 

"I've kissed men before." He said that before turning me around, holding me against the wall, and kissing me. 

"You wanna get undressed?" He looked me in the eye, holding the collar of my t-shirt, and about four inches from my face. 

"It's really cold,"   
He shook his head before taking my shirt and pulling it off my body, then pulling me closer to him in an almost hug, but stuck my hands under his sleeves. 

I told him he had pretty eyes as he unfolded our arms and kissed down my stomach, hands under the drawstring of my shorts the whole time. 

"You're really—pretty." He spoke into the waistband of my precum-stained boxers and I shivered. 

He asked me if I'd ever taken dick and I told him I hadn't. He said it was alright, and asked if I had lube. I had lotion in my car.   
He kissed my mouth before I gave him my keys and watched him jog around to the front of the house.   
He tasted how he smelled; clean, a bit sweet I assume from the pears his girlfriend cut up for us. 

I felt like a dick, to be honest, though I thought he was content with his decision to break things off with her. I was completely taking advantage, I mean, of her. She was stuck inside with our hurting friend, her boyfriend left her, and is now hooking up with her soon-to-be best friend.   
He came back with a bottle of this aveeno baby lotion. 

"This?"

"Yeah,"

He laughed as he squirted some onto his hands and gently pressed some on the top of my ass, before slowly pulling my pants down to reveal my hole. 

"Did you talk to her already?"

"What?" He seemed occupied. I wanted to forget about it but it was growing more difficult as he got closer and closer to me. 

"Indigo—I don't want to hurt ___."

"You're not," he sounded a bit annoyed, but kissed the side of my neck anyway. 

"You cut things off with her?"

"Pretty much." 

I believed him. That didn't stop me from feeling relatively bad through the foreplay, though.

I told him it felt better at a certain angle when he was eating me out, and he told me he liked it when I pushed his head deeper into my ass. He had this great laugh—and smile, that sent shivers down my back. He would giggle when he came up, kissing my lower stomach, around my balls, and up to my chest. He didn't suck my dick, but I was more than happy to move down to his bulge peaking through pretty-tight jeans. 

I undid the button pretty quickly considering how dark it was, and kissed around his—heavily moist—underwear. His thighs were muscular and hairy in all the right ways. His shins were hairier than his thighs, and he had this thick, black bush that cradled his heavy, dragging balls beautifully. He wasn't afraid to make noise, either. I kissed around his balls and felt his left leg begin to shiver and wobble and his voice gently tremble.  
Then came the cute giggling on his end, telling me it tickled. He apologized, saying again that it was his first time with a guy. He was pretty thick, around the same length as me; I could go down on him and let him touch the back of my throat relatively well. I gagged a bit, which in reflux made him grasp the back of my head. He would ask if I was alright, if it was too much, and I would shake my head and take him in all the way again. 

When he picked me up, he kissed around my shoulders before pressing my chest against the chimney, pulled my dick out right beneath my ass, and rubbed some lotion over it for me. My hole had already been well-lubed, so he just slid his dick against my crack, moving his hand along the front of my torso as he did.   
He asked if I was ready, and I told him I had been waiting forever. I was pretty tight, he told me; whispered it in my ear, and quickly, as if he were about to explode. He asked me if I could take him, and to tell him if I needed to stop.   
Of course, it hurt for about two minutes. I was pretty confident that I was a bottom. I was hard as a rock, after all. 

He kept up this steady speed for only about four minutes before telling me he was close. He kept pressing his long fingers into my stomach, and pushing my down doggy, then standing me up and kissing my shoulders and upper back.   
He pulled out when he came, then told me to cum for him. He helped stroke me, and kept watching my face, through the dark, as I made myself cum for him. I hadn't cum in a while, so my load was a decent size; not as big as his. 

Afterward—I pulled on my shorts and shirt pretty quickly— he told me he'd gone in and used his girlfriend's home phone to call his friend to come pick him up. I thought that was awful, and then reminded me that I had just totally disregarded my friend in this short little endeavor.   
I asked what he was going to do, and he told me he would talk to her tonight, as they always did. I told him we shouldn't have done this, and he just shook his head. He knew, I knew, we weren't going to make this a second or third time thing. 

After that, I went back inside for a few minutes. My friend was talking with our other friend. She was awake and fine, at that point. She asked how our walk was with a weird expression, but I knew she meant nothing of it and was simply teasing me as she knew I had a bit of a crush on our friend's boyfriend. 

I left pretty quickly afterward, my excuse being that my dad was home now; he got home usually around ten or eleven on Sundays, which was today.

Still think about it. I don't think about Indigo that often because I still see him as a mutual on the TL. He's studying abroad in Taiwan right now, which is interesting because his father is Taiwanese. He's also dating—planning on marrying a woman. How time can break a man.


	6. 6

There's a number saved in my old phone that I call occasionally, because I know there's no one on the other end to result in threat, and it's very comforting to hear the laugh and pleasant crusade of my ex-lover's voicemail.   
He was tall and creative and listened to piano music because he said it made him feel alive. He wanted to play professionally but didn't consider himself talented. I have these old vinyls he never came and picked up from me; generic fifties and sixties albums that would come to the mind of any senior asked to recall their favorite song at their school dance. I always wondered how someone like him could grow up--as if this was simply another phase for him--and leave, as if I was nothing more than a consideration. He stopped playing piano a few years back because it made him too sad--that's what he said on social media. I think, at least, that he thought he looked dumb putting all his emotion into a work he didn't consider himself good at. I didn't want to interject in his decision--despite my love for his music ability--because I assumed this was another one of his non-rebuttal arguments where some idea creeps into his mind and you can't refute him on anything the idea has engraved into his head.  
In late August, some odd years ago, I sat in my dad's living room and listened to him play some of Queen's best, then switch to Death Grips in some untimely manner in order to fluctuate the excitement of his—vast—audience.   
He had dark brown hair and a voice that melted ice.   
He always spoke like he expected the whole world to listen—they did. This charismatic bastard brought me a life I'd never experienced. He gave me a sense of altruism I didn't think was achievable. He would interject intrusive thoughts and hold me through my worst times of doubt.   
After Valentine's Day one year I came home to loud music crawling out from under the basement door. I knew it was him playing the synth. It sounded remarkable; like something you'd hear at the beginning of some treasured instrumental piece from the early sixteenth.  
I just walked down into the basement and sat, then layed on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and letting my ears ache, if only to enjoy the heart and soul of my lover through bites of heaven mimicked through piano and harp. I heard him come out through the glass studio doors and it seemed my ears were ringing too rhythmically to have noticed that the music had stopped, before I saw him standing above me.   
In his pink pyjama pants and hollow, comforting musk.   
He knelt down as if knowing I wanted to get closer to him. He was smiling but his complexion always made him look kind of serious. I kissed the part of his forehead in which I could reach, and he intertwined our fingers, staring at me with some of the witchiest eyes I'd then ever seen. 

"I was playing that Peter Paul and Mary song you like so much earlier."

"On Synth?"

He nodded and lifted me by my shoulders to my feet.   
There's this near psychosis I fall under when I feel him so close to me. His aroma was light, masked under deodorant. I kissed between his shoulder blades as he guided me by hand to the studio. 

"I've been thinking of this piece for a while now. I was thinking of your childhood bedroom and it gave me this great-oh, there's also more natural sounds in this one because I know you like raw piano," he turned the volume up on this older recording I vaguely recognize him having worked on a few months prior. 

"Play it through the basement, I think the echo would sound nice." I whispered into the back of his neck.

The serenity in the air as I listened to the hymns of my boyfriend's soft voice was beyond anything I'd experienced before. I felt like I could fall back, and through the concrete and dirt layers down to middle Earth. I walked over to an old couch he got from his grandma and dragged my hand over the cellophane layer. 

"I know you know you're hot, but I feel like you should be reminded," I was too tired to raise my voice, but I heard him snort and come over behind me to wrap his arms around my neck

"I'm glad you like it," he was speaking super softly, and bent down so directly into my ear.  
He pulled away and yet I came up with him as he walked back to the studio. I started to undo my top couple buttons—I usually did when I got home then, our dress codes at school were cruel. He started playing a song I immediately recognized. I had some strange fascination for Peter Yarrow's hollow vocals in Puff the Magic Dragon; perhaps it reminded me of a simple childhood and a less solemn experience. 

I played with the hair directly on the back of his head, hanging down to the nape of his neck. I leaned in and smelled his sweet conditioner. 

"I really like this part," I realized he wasn't playing with the synth anymore, but had simply moved his hands on top of mine and gently rocked side to side with me behind him.   
The part, in question, was the best chorus part of the original, but with his beautiful husky voice. I smiled into his neck and let the pheromones from his hair collapse into me. 

"Do you want to go to bed?" I kissed the side of his neck, and whispered into his ear. 

At the time, it seemed as though I was missing something—the reasons I was so attracted to this person were perfectly blatant to the naked eye, and yet I seemed to dismantle them like building blocks. Looking back, I understand perfectly how this person managed to walk his way into this--practically opened door of my life, and contributed as one of the biggest parts, yet I feel almost undermined when all I can recall from our relationship are short candids of our time spent together. I suppose most beauty we see from the past comes back to us in small recollections like these.   
Nonetheless, his life catered towards mine, and I accepted him as something more than crucial—for happiness, health, my physical weakness and mental. 

He pulled me under the sheets and I slid into him, feeling the warmth of his body caressing mine; it was how special and free he made me feel.   
I kissed around his left shoulder before he pulled me up by my chin and began down my neck. He had very short hair, and my hands ran over his head as he worked his way down my body.   
I felt his own hands travel down my spine and leave goosebumps, as my fingers lingered on his face. He told me one time that he felt so loved when I pet his face, so I continued to do so.   
He started undoing my buttons upward, and I helped by undoing them downward, then pulling my pants down around my ankles and pulling him close to kiss my legs and thighs.

He kissed my boxers very softly, but I was so touchy and filled with serotonin that even his soft fingertips and lips made me entirely too excited. I pushed his head deeper into my balls and felt him smile, pull himself into me, then lick through my boxers at my ass. He knew exactly how to get me, I guess I'd told him before, too, though.   
I reached over him and looked at his dick through his boxers. I'd pulled the pink fluffy pants down already, and revealed this throbbing beautiful mess of a bulge.   
I pushed him over so I could lay on top of him and do to him what he was doing to me; licking around, between his thighs and over his underwear. He squirmed a bit as I pulled his briefs down, then began to relax and run his big hand through my hair, using the other to rub his nips. I then replaced his nip rubbing with my own hand so he could face fuck me. I could take it pretty well, and he was very expressive in that realm, so I appreciated the contact there more than anything. 

After a while he seemed ready to do something more, so I let him pin my wrists to the bed and eat my ass a bit. I was twitchy and worried he'd make me cum before putting his dick in me—he'd done it before, and although I enjoyed it of course, I more so enjoyed this massive prolonging of pleasure he gave to me. He pulled away only to kiss up my back messily, then kiss my neck in some sort of signal. I reached behind me and grabbed his dick lightly in my hand. 

I liked begging for his dick, but he was too fast. He pushed in me quickly, which was fine because I adapted very quick, but he was still larger than average. I took him in strides, and slowly the pleasure mounted its way through the harshness of the pain, and my teeth loosened on his pillow, where I instead started drooling. He rubbed my back and spanked my ass for a few minutes before pulling out and asking me to turn around for him. I opened my mouth and closed my eyes, but he wanted me to suck him off, which I enjoyed more. I happily took him in, and with several deepthroats and a few exasperated groans from him, I felt shots of cum down my throat, making me choke, and letting my cock shake a bit. He began jerking me off, and I felt it coming on pretty strong as I gagged on his cum, trying to get it all down. After a few more strokes, I shoved his limp dick all the way down my throat and shot over my thighs and his hand. 

His face of seriousness and pressure had slowly dwindled into a loving high of pleasure, and I let him collapse on top of me, all sticky with sweat and cum. 

I watched him move, after several minutes, to the bathroom, then drop naked back into our bed. Back when I wished for nothing more than my boy by my side, letting me know then that the altruism I surely lacked would come back and soak into me from the touch and bastardous smile of this love.


End file.
